


Paradise by the Diner Lights

by HuggerMuggered



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:25:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HuggerMuggered/pseuds/HuggerMuggered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>RTAH Secret Santa 2013 for Prince-Everhard (Onceuponachildhood)- “Diner AU where Lindsay is some 3rd shifter stopping by some crappy little diner on her way home every night and Michael is the Angry Short-Order cook turned counter-worker that falls in love with her.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paradise by the Diner Lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onceuponachildhood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponachildhood/gifts).



**Wednesday, December 4th. 4:10am**

  
_“And that’s it for us. We’ll talk to you cool cats again tomorrow.”_   
_“And remember, keep voting for Friday’s midnight top twenty.”_   
_“I’m Lindsay,” “And I’m Caiti,”_   
_“And we’re signing off at The Nightly Scratch, 778.9 KVR.”_   


The weather is unseasonably cold for Texas. The wind chill alone would send most sane people packing, but Lindsay hops out of the bright red car that’s been keeping her warm for the twenty minutes that spanned the drive from the radio station to her bus-stop. She can feel her toes curl in distaste, so she pulls her scarf up tighter around her nose and only gives Jack and Caiti a short wave through the foggy glass of their car before huddling in on herself and making her way toward the bright neon lights of the Diner that’s positioned right behind the bus stop. The bus won’t start running until five-thirty in the morning, and it’s only four-twenty now. She’ll spend the next hour in her usual way- waiting out the time with a meal and plenty of hot coffee.

The buzzing sign above the door, spelled out in an obnoxious neon green, says only ‘Diner’- and that’s being polite. The windows are all fogged, showing off a myriad of handprints and smudges and what _could_ be penises drawn with dirty fingers. The parking-lot is near empty, two cars and an old white pick-up parked on what used to be asphalt and is now broken enough to be gravel. The establishment’s only saving grace is the amount of light keeping the most unsavory characters away, and the cheerful twinkle of the bell as Lindsay pulls the door open and ducks inside before too much heat can escape- or the cold can follow her inside.

Ears defrosting, Lindsay pulls off her scarf and balls it up into the mess inside her satchel. Its bright colors clash with the ink and jet headphones and dirty gray of smudged pencil notes from the night’s broadcast. She has to blink against the change of light- what was bright LED street lights outside has transformed into the dull fluorescence of the inside of the diner. They do well to hide most of the grime that all diners suffer, and bleach the nauseous blood-orange of the seats into a plain red. It’s not entirely empty, but the volume inside is double what it should be. The workers behind the counter are laughing uproariously, and there’s the unmistakable sound of crashing pots and pans coming from the back; but all in all it’s a familiar place, and Lindsay scoots past the ‘seat yourself’ sign stuck within crashing distance of the entrance and into the main layout of the diner.

Some spunky little high schoolers have stolen her usual corner booth (which is much too big and plush for one person, though she’d loath to admit it) so she scoots past their half-finished baskets of fries and piles of napkins covered in spilled ketchup to take a seat at the front counter. The crew behind it are still laughing, the three men wiping away tears from the corners of their eyes.

“Lindsay! Oh man you are not gonna believe this guy-” Ray says as a greeting, thumb thrown over his shoulder to point at the order window that peeks into the kitchen. He’s sitting on the silverware cart to the right of the window, out of the line of fire. There’s been a ‘Help Wanted’ sign stuck to the sticky glass of the front window for weeks; Lindsay assumes that the fact it is missing, paired with the howling sound of damnation and destruction coming through from the kitchen, suggests that a new cook has been found.

Geoff, bless him, is pouring her usual bottomless mug of coffee while Ray speaks. He doesn’t mind the cup as he pours, instead staring into the depths of the kitchen with an eyebrow raised. His laughter has turned into a grin. If he is at all worried about the state of his diner under the tyranny of the new employee, it doesn’t show in the blank gaze of his eyes that could be sleep deprivation or liquor. It’s a Wednesday, so it’s more likely to be the former.

Gavin is still laughing, not trying to speak or calm his breathing like Ray. His right hand is braced against the coffee machine, which shakes at the same rate he does. Bent over as he is, it isn’t likely that any projectiles can come at him from the order window.

Lindsay doesn’t know _why_ she assumes projectiles are coming, but it seems like the kitchen has turned into a battlezone, so it’s only fair that projectiles are an option.

“Is he as unbelievable as you three? Because I’m not exactly rocketing into space from the amazing.” Lindsay says, watching Geoff pour her coffee. She can feel the caffeine kick already- even burnt coffee grounds in lukewarm water can be a blessing this time of night. She grabs it greedily and lets herself burn her tongue on a sip while Ray is busy pelting her left arm with creamer packets.

Something appears in the order window, making Ray glance towards it. There’s the flash of a bright blue beanie with a layer of red-brown curls peeking out underneath it and then all Lindsay can see is shocking brown eyes. They stare at her for a moment, her position at the seat right in front of the order window giving her a front row experience, and then disappear behind the crashing of a Full-Plate Special being tossed onto the rack. There’s a cut-off ringing of the bell, a hand slammed onto it to hard for it to ring fully, and then the cook is gone. The sound of discordant pots and pans melts away.

“Order Up!” Ray calls, despite the fact that there’s no one to shout above. Gavin finally straightens up, reaching out for the plate with a hand towel so that he won't burn himself on the hot ceramic (he’s done it before, Lindsay as a witness). Ray grabs three packets of grape jelly and tosses them onto the plate before Gavin’s fully turned around, and then he’s making his way to the man sitting three seats down from Lindsay at the end of the counter. Gavin is, as usual, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

The man has a pair of glasses balanced on his nose, but even so he’s squinting at the phone in his hands. The screen is too small for his large hands, so it seems, until the light starts glittering a little brighter in between his fingers and Lindsay realizes he’s fixing a broken cell-phone at the counter.

“Alright there Ryan?” Gavin asks, setting down the plate at the bigger man’s elbow and leaning over the counter to get a good look at the phone.

“You’ve sent this thing to hell.” Ryan says simply.

“Aw, but you can fix it right?” Gavin says, leaning down so that his face falls into his hands, elbows balanced on the very edge of the vinyl countertop. “You have before.”

Ryan huffs something that’s approximate to a laugh, shaking his head and putting down the phone to pull his plate toward him. He begins ripping open jelly packets while a disappointed Gavin pulls a coffee carafe toward him to refill his mug- which is running as dangerously low as Lindsay’s is. Geoff takes care of filling her up again, still looking more like a good-for-nothing employee than the owner of a business. Once her hands are warm again and Ray is done pelting her with mini-creamer packets she looks up to find Geoff already writing out her ticket, though she hasn’t ordered. He raises an eyebrow when he rips it off the pad, holding it far enough away from her face that she can just barely make out the pencil scratches that look like her usual Wednesday night order. She nods, figuring he’s probably got it more memorized than she does.

Geoff slaps the ticket into the metal clip on the rotating ticket holder and then dings the bell and sits back to sip at his own cup of coffee. The pots and pans symphony in the kitchen pauses and then the eyes are back. They stare at her, the ticket, and then there’s a flash of a white hand and the ticket is gone and the rack is left spinning all empty again.

“And that would be Michael Jones, new line cook and hell of a talker.” Ray says, the barb at Michael’s lack of chattiness probably directly correlated to how much yapping the employees of the Diner do in relation to how much actual work they do.

In evidence to Lindsay’s assumption to the same, Ray glances over her her head at the table of teenagers who have been trying to wave him over to give them their check for three minutes and then shrugs.

“Gav your table is waiting for you.” Ray says, leaning against the cart more fully.

“Go do your own table you donut.” Gavin replies, too busy looking at Ryan’s hands as the older man takes another stab (quite literally, his butterknife is halfway into the phone’s screen) at fixing his mobile device.

Ray sighs dramatically, glances at Geoff to see if he can’t cry wolf, and ends up hopping off the silverware cart with his hands shoved in the pockets of his waiter’s apron to deliver the check he’s had written up for fifteen minutes.

There’s the sudden unmistakable sound of a glass plate shattering in the kitchen, and then the man who Ray has named Michael Jones starts shouting in pure curse words so vivid and descriptive that Lindsay has the urge to cover Gavin’s ears as he approaches her part of the counter with an empty coffee carafe and his mangled cell phone. Gavin, who has lived with Geoff ‘Dicks up my but’ Ramsay far too long, doesn’t need the help.

The shouting has other effects. The teenagers all but toss their money at Ray and scramble to leave, accidentally dropping an extra twenty dollars which makes for a nice tip on what would have usually been a horrible non-gratuity, and Caleb the bus-boy flees from the kitchen on legs of quick-silver with his plastic tub cradled in his arms and his rag over his shoulder as though the devil who has had him scrubbing pots and pans since midnight might pull him back into the kitchen to finish the job. In fact, the chef does appear to follow him out the swinging double doors, only to make a sharp left behind the counter and lean on the acrylic countertop breathing heavy to look Lindsay in the eyes.

Geoff looks as though he’s preparing for a show, smiling at the scene. Ray has frozen in place by the corner booth where he’s been scraping ketchup off of singles. Gavin is the only one who steps forward.

“Michael I don’t think-” Gavin says, cut off by the force of Michael’s next sentence.

“Yeah, you don’t. Who the Fuck does? Did you see this fucking ticket?!” Michael seeths, the crumpled piece of paper he’s referencing crinkling in his fist. “What the fuck is this ticket supposed to mean?! First I have to deal with a table full of ungrateful teenagers who order three baskets of french fries and nothing else, then I’ve got your Construction lacky-” He points to Ryan, who lifts a brow but seems to be smiling. “Ordering a full plate with seven different substitutions when there’s only FIVE ITEMS involved, and now _this_.”

The ticket is a crumpled piece of hate, now, but Michael somehow unfolds it perfectly and slams it onto the counter in front of Lindsay with enough venom that it lies down flat.

“One grilled cheese, substitute pepperjack for american, substitute rye for white, burn the crust but keep the center golden- a side of fries with no salt, substitute garlic powder- and a Strawberry Milkshake with three cherries, one on the top and two at the bottom- Extra whipped cream.” Michael lists off, not even looking at the ticket. His eyes are boring into Lindsay’s skull. “Three substitutions, an impossible bread preference _and there’s not even a blender in the fucking kitchen_!”

At the last phrase he whips around to stare at Geoff, who takes a sip of his coffee and shrugs.

“The last chef took the blender as compensation for his shoes.” He laments, staring off into the middle distance. “Or was that the food processor?”

Michael throws his hands up into the air and then slams them into his skull, pulling down the edges of his beanie over his ears. Lindsay is busy reading the messy scrawl on her ticket, letting the room cool down before she says:

“Actually, it should be four cherries-- the extra one gets stuck in the middle of the shake.”

Michael breaks.

The chef lets his hands fall down from his beanie to swing limply at his sides, head turning to look at Lindsay as though she’s decided to grow a fourth head. No one else moves as he shakes his head once to either side and then trudges back into the kitchen. The swinging doors can’t muffle the sound of the back exit door closing softly behind Michael as he leaves the building.

Lindsay drains the rest of her cup, sighs, and looks as forlornly at her discarded ticket as she can. “No milkshakes for me.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After about fifteen minutes of Geoff's laughing uncontrollably at what was the biggest blow up they’ve had from a chef yet, forcing Ray and Gavin to remind him to breath once in a while, Geoff finally moves to stand up from the portion of the counter he’s sitting on top of and head into the kitchen.

“Okay, okay-- Grilled cheese, yeah Linds?” He asks, throwing the towel he uses to wipe up after bad coffee drinkers over his right shoulder. “Great, I think we’ve got like, two slices of PJ and some pumpernickel or something-”

The bell in the order window rings.

It’s as if time has stopped. Geoff is the first to turn his head and see Michael’s hands shoving a hot plate and a tall glass filled with pink milkshake onto the shelf. The chef’s eyes appear for a moment, look only at Lindsay, and then disappear. Caleb, who has been sitting next to Lindsay laughing with the rest of them, is the first to speak.

“I don’t want to go back in the kitchen.”

There is no loud ‘order up’ when Ray pulls the plate off of the order window and sets it in front of Lindsay. Everyone is too busy looking at the perfectly dark brown crust of the rye bread compared to the golden crispness of the soft middle- oozing cheese embedded with spicy peppers leaking onto the plate and into the pile of golden greasy fries with a light dusting of garlicky goodness- and no one has to ask if there are four cherries or not, because the one balanced perfectly in the center of the massive amount of whipped cream is so on-key that they can’t think any different.

Lindsay stares at her order in shock, at first, but then the eyes are back in the window and Michael’s eyebrows are so low that he looks animal when he shouts.

“Are you going to fucking eat it or not?! The store is about two miles down the road and just opened it’s mother-fucking doors a half hour early so that you could have rye bread.”

Lindsay looks at Geoff and shrugs, then bites into her grilled cheese.

She makes sure to leave an extra tip- It’s the best meal she’s had at the diner since she started eating there.

* * *

 

**Tuesday December 17th, 5:00am**

Lindsay snorts into her bowl of chicken noodle soup as she tries to control her laughter. She’s been listening to Gavin argue with Michael about semantics for about twenty minutes and it’s started going to her brain.

“No but, like, listen- _listen_ \- If he’s asked me to go see a movie with him and it’s a horror movie, and he knows I don’t like horror movies, then it _has_ to be a date- right?” Gavin asks, leaning his head through the order window. He has to, if he wants any sort of conversation with him; the chef is busy. There’s been a steady increase in the amount of diner patrons since Michael started working. Most of them are late night construction guys, a couple of truckers are at the counter, and there’s a group of guys from the bowling alley stuffed into the corner booth that Lindsay has stopped sitting it- preferring the front row seat and service of the counter.

“Gavin that makes no sense.” Michael’s voice snaps, a blender whirring in the background.

The coffee machine spits as Gavin tries to answer back. “But he knows I don’t like them! That means he wants me to be _scared_.”

“It means he’s a scary asshole.” Michael says, appearing in the window and putting down two cheeseburgers and another bowl of soup. “He’s freaky- and he drives a white pick-up.”

“He works construction!”

“You’re doomed.” Michael says, rolling his eyes at Lindsay to testify to how ‘doomed’ Gavin really is. “Haywood’s a creep and you’re going to end up dead in a ditch somewhere on a Texas highway. Then we’ll be even more swamped since Ray has decided to fucking skip town to New York for a month.”

“Well he does sort of live there-” Lindsay says, swallowing a bite of bread as Gavin carries the burgers to the truckers. “and stuff.”

“Yeah well he fucking belongs _here_.” Michael says, leaning back into the kitchen as he hears Geoff cursing from the frier. “Coming boss-” He glances at Lindsay before he goes, and she smiles in return.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Michael disappears and doesn’t get a chance to get back to the window until Lindsay is on her bus back into the city. He flings a dish towel uselessly against the sink as he wonders why he couldn’t just segway into asking Lindsay to the movie like he and Gavin had planned all night.

* * *

 

**Saturday December 21st, 5:30am**

“Fuck a duck- I missed my bus.” Lindsay says, trudging back into the diner and through the early morning crowd. There’s line at the front that Caleb is busy managing and Geoff is stuck behind the order window because breakfast is his specialty and Michael is in a good enough mood today that customers haven’t had steak knives embedded into their hands because he’s forced to work the counter.

Saturday mornings are busy, and it’s been a long night for everyone.

Michael looks over at Lindsay, who’s going to have to wait an hour for another bus, and pours a cup of coffee for her while he waits for Geoff to toss him the missing toast for table thirteen’s order that Caleb is asking for.

“I’m off at Six, I can take you home.” He suggests, trying not to hesitate because he knows that’ll cause Lindsay to hesitate and then they’ll be standing there for fifteen minutes before there’s an answer. “You live on Cox right? I pass by it-”

“YES.” Lindsay says, not even allowing time for him to finish. “Take me home. I’ll pay you in snores.”

Michael laughs, handing a plate with a pile of toast on it to Caleb. Gavin will be in to relieve him at six and Lindsay will be in his car and there will be plenty of awkward silence with the broken radio to ask her to that movie that scared Gavin shitless and will probably put stitches in Lindsay’s sides- because that’s the kind of person she is.

“I can cash those in, right?” He asks, tossing a coffee creamer at her head. She doesn’t answer except to stir her coffee and roll her eyes-- but that’s a good enough sign that the next five customers actually get a cheerful greeting.

* * *

**Wednesday December 25th, 4:20am**

The diner is empty, but that hasn’t stopped the neon sign from flashing ‘open’ or the chef from cooking.

There’s a grilled cheese waiting for Lindsay on the counter when she comes in the front door, a pile of fries on the plate covered in garlic powder and a mug of coffee with two creamers. There’s also a bowl of chili and a coke- which is explained without words when Michael appears from the swinging doors and walks around the counter to sit next to Lindsay before setting down her milkshake.

“Had the place to yourself tonight?” Lindsay asks, picking up a french fry and trying not to smile too big.

“Yeah, well, not anymore.” Michael says, leaning on the counter. “There’s this one annoying customer who comes in every night except Mondays to order these exceptionally complicated menu items and annoy the fuck out of the staff.” He raises an eyebrow and points his spoon into Lindsay’s face. “Even tries to ruin Christmas.”

“Eh, could be worse. You might have a short-tempered short order cook to worry about.” Lindsay answers.

“Well, thank God for small miracles.” Michael says, picking up his coke.

Lindsay smiles, and clinks her milkshake glass against his plastic cup.

“And for strawberry milkshakes.”


End file.
